


Pyeongchang 2018

by zellieh



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Outing, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Olympics, Outing, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zellieh/pseuds/zellieh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men walk into a bar, and several hours later, they wake up hungover and it turns out Mama Ovechkin and Mama Malkin were both right about stupid boys making terrible decisions when they're drunk.</p><p>Luckily for their stupid boys, both their Mamas were also telling the truth when they said they loved them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyeongchang 2018

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brax/gifts).



> For brax's excellent prompt for the Hockey Exchange 2015; I hope you like it. Beta'd by L, with many thanks. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This is ridiculously self-indulgent nonsense, and I know very little about the Olympics, Russia, Russian language and customs, and Russian hockey players. I'm doing a lot of hand-waving here, you have been warned.

"Ah ah ah! I see how it is now!" Zhenya smiled at Sasha's face on the tiny screen and waved a finger tat him. "You only joined Team Russia for the shared hotel rooms!"

Sasha grinned and grabbed at his chest. "AH! You caught me, Zhenya. I only play hockey for the chance to get you into a room with paper-thin walls, a narrow single bed with a mattress made of stone, and the constant risk of interruption!" He mock-gasped, "The Olympics turn me on every time, the polyester uniforms are just so sexy!"

Zhenya smirked at him and shimmied his hips as he moved around his bedroom, throwing things into his suitcase. "You say that like you're joking, but I remember what happened in Sochi last time we played and won..."

Sasha raised an eyebrow. "What? I wasn't the one begging, Zhenya."

Taking a shirt off a hanger and folding it, Zhenya sat down on his bed and sighed. "Will they let you share with me in South Korea, or does the Captain have to have his own room?" 

Sasha shrugged, leaning back against his own bed in Washington. "I'm not sure. They still haven't replied to me." He reached out a hand towards the screen of his laptop, fingertips growing absurdly large onscreen as he cupped his fingers, then sighed again, dropping his hand. "I can't wait to touch you."

"Mmmm." Zhenya cupped his own cheek, leaning into his own hand; it wasn't the same, but he liked the way Sasha's eyes darkened as he licked his lips stroking his own cheek and dropping a kiss into his own palm before Zhenya blew him a kiss. "I'll sneak into your room, or you can sneak into mine. I know you like pretending to be James Bond."

"Well, I do look good in a suit," Sasha said, and preened, tossing his head.

Zhenya snorted and gently threw a pair of rolled-up socks at him; they bounced off the laptop's screen and landed on the keyboard.

Onscreen Sasha flinched back, grinning gap-toothed. "...I'm beginning to reconsider sharing a room with you. Such violence."

"You love it!" Zhenya licked his lips, his teeth, as sexily as he could, and then snapped them together playfully.

Onscreen, Sasha disappeared from view as he pretended to fall over laughing, one hip and a flailing hand all Zhenya could see.

Honestly, Zhenya didn't know why he'd put up with this idiot for all these years. "I don't know why I put up with you!" he called out to his still-giggling, still out of sight lover. "You call this love? I get no respect!" Zhenya shook his head and threw more socks into his suitcase, folding up some old Moscow Dynamo t-shirts to sleep in.

 

 

Getting off the plane from Pittsburgh, Zhenya grabbed a trolley, loaded it up and asked where he needed to go for the international flights. Ugh, customs. While he was queuing, he sent a text to Sasha, and then headed for the right departure lounge, Glad that the team had at least paid for Business Class so he'd be able to sleep on the flight form Washington to South Korea.

"Zhenya!" Grinning — with his teeth in this time, since they had some of the Olympics press flying with them — Sasha threw his arm around Zhenya's shoulders and tugged him into his side, ruffling his hair. "It's been too long!"

"Ugh! Stop that!" Zhenya batted his hands away from his hair, but threw his arm around Sasha's waist and squeezed until Sasha yelped. It felt good to have him in his arms again, warm and solidly muscular, even if there wasn't anything he could do about it in the middle of an airport lounge with the NHL members of Team Russia and several journalists milling around.

On cue, one of the official Russian journalists popped up in front of them with a microphone and a camera. "How does it feel to be representing your country in Pyeongchang?"

Sasha used that as an opportunity to lean into Zhenya as close as he could, babbling about how proud he was to be selected and what a great opportunity it was to play with so many great players and of course they were going to win!

Zhenya just smiled along, snuggling in closer to Sasha and grinning at the camera. "What he said," he said, elbowing Sasha. "We're aiming to win gold, and with this team, we will do it."

"This year is our year!" Sasha said, and a couple of Team Russia's rookie players yelled agreement and crashed into them, bouncing with excitement.

After that, Sasha never let go of Zhenya, disguising it by grabbing other random team-mates and pulling them into team bonding hugs as well. When they boarded the plane, Zhenya was hot, sweaty, ruffled and crumpled from being manhandled and hugged by Sasha and his other team-mates, and he couldn't stop grinning. It was so good to be surrounded by Russians again, away from stand-offish North Americans. 

And with Sasha next to him and almost constantly hanging off his shoulder, a happy, handsy Sasha in a bouncy good mood, giving him these looks out of the corner of his eye and licking his lips... well.

It was going to be a hell of a long flight; he couldn't wait to get Sasha to the hotel.

Dragging him across the arm rest with an arm around his neck, Sasha whispered, "I asked, and I'll be sharing a twin room with you. Our stone-hard mattresses await us!" 

His breath was hot against Zhenya's ear, his voice warm with desire, and Zhenya shivered. "I can't wait," he said, and ran a quick hand along Sasha's taut thigh, squeezing and flirting his little finger up against his cock, half-hard in his Team Russia trousers.

Sasha moaned silently, a huff of breath against Zhenya's ear, and let his thighs sprawl wider even as he shoved Zhenya away, grinning and biting his lip. "I don't know why I agreed to room with you!" he said, loud, for the team to hear. "You're awful; this will be terrible!"

"Oh yes," Zhenya nodded, tongue in cheek as he palmed Sasha's face, shoving him away and then pushed his fingers through his hair, ruffling it to see Sasha smile and laugh and flail at him. "I'm going to do such terrible things to you."

 

 

Zhenya looked around the hotel room in the Olympic village, impressed by the space and the two double beds. He didn't want to say it was better than Sochi, but—

"This is better than Sochi!" Sasha said, beaming as he bounced on the bed, testing the mattress. He threw himself backwards, arms and legs starfished out. "It's a small double, but at least my feet aren't dangling off the end this time!"

Zhenya dropped his bags on his bed, and crawled over Sasha, who instantly wrapped his arms and legs around him, pulling him down. "Oof! Hello," he said, grinning down at Sasha, teasingly holding his head up just out of kissing range. "Did you want something?" 

"You're a terrible person," Sasha growled, and yanked his head down to kiss him, fingers tight in his hair. 

Zhenya let his eyes flutter closed and sank into the kiss: warm, soft, chapped lips, and oh, when he opened his mouth, such a filthy tongue. Zhenya moaned into Sasha's mouth and rolled his hips forward, running a hand down Sasha's side to his hip and gripping tight, curling his hand under to clutch at his ass, then running his fingertips along the underside of Sasha's thigh, wrapped up high around him, muscles tensing and flexing as they rubbed off against each other. 

"Too many clothes," Sasha grumbled, pulling at the zip on Zhenya's jacket then shoving his shirt up under his arms. "Off! Get them off!"

Zhenya laughed and sat back on his knees, Sasha's legs uncurling reluctantly from around him. He threw off his jacket and shirt in one move, then stood up to strip off his pants and underwear, stripping off his socks, then glaring at Sasha, who was sprawled out on the bed, red-lipped and hard in his pants — and still fully dressed.

"What are you waiting for?"

"What, I can't admire the view?" Sasha looked him up and down, leering and cupping his cock, arching his back, biting his lip, and generally showing off. 

Zhenya grinned at him and threw a pose like a bodybuilder, flexing his muscles. "Oh yes, I'm irresistible, everyone says so," he said, and kissed his biceps loudly. "Mwah! Mwah!"

Sasha hit him in the face with one of the smelly socks he'd just taken off. 

"Hey!" Zhenya pointed at him. "That means war!" He clambered onto the bed, grabbed a squirming Sasha by the hips, tickling him, and then hooked his fingers in his waistband and pulled off his pants and underwear in one move, Sasha's cock bouncing against his stomach as he pulled them down Sasha's strong legs, his bony ankles and sweaty feet. 

He stood at the end of the bed for a moment, Sasha's pants forgotten in his hands, and just stared at Sasha lying half-naked and ruffled on the bed, jacket and shirt pushed up under his armpits, tattoos and golden skin and muscles flexing under his skin with every breath. Sasha's cock twitched and firmed up under his gaze, and Zhenya had to close his mouth and swallow spit, licking his lips as he looked up Sasha's body to meet his eyes, blue turned almost black as Sasha panted, open-mouthed and flushed as he looked Zhenya up and down.

Sasha pushed one hand over his head, bracing himself against the headboard, and then ran the other hand across his chest, rubbing his nipples, then down his abs, following his happy trail to his hard cock, giving it a slow stroke then letting it bounce off his stomach again. "See something you like, Zhenya?"

Zhenya threw Sasha's pants aside, and kneed his way up the bed between Sasha's thighs, palms tickling as he ran them up Sasha's legs, muscles quivering under his skin, to grip his hips. "Beautiful."

Sasha opened his mouth — to throw out a joke or a protest — and Zhenya leaned in and dropped a butterfly kiss against his lips, pulling back to stare into his eyes. "Beautiful," he said, daring Sasha to disagree with him.

Sasha blushed, panting, and licked his lips. "Kiss me again, Zhenya. Kiss me right this time."

"Properly?" Zhenya smirked, and dropped another butterfly kiss on his cheek. "Like this?" He dropped more fleeting touches on Sasha's eyelids, his cheeks, his hockey scars, his nose and chin. 

Sasha laughed and relaxed under him, raising his hands to skim his fingertips against Zhenya's skin, a tease of a touch across his shoulders, collarbones, up his neck — Zhenya shivered — up to cup his jaw, stroking his thumbs across Zhenya's cheeks as they breathed together. "You can kiss me however you want, Zhenya."

Zhenya blinked back unexpected tears, and tucked his head down under Sasha's chin; Sasha stroked fingers through his hair as Zhenya wormed his hands under Sasha's torso and clutched at him, tight around his ribs and waist. "Missed you," he managed, "I always miss touching you so much." He dropped a kiss on Sasha's neck.

 

 

Zhenya leaned forward, every muscle tense as Sid skated towards their goalie, then pulled off a perfect shot to put Canada ahead. Damn him. Beside him, Sasha swore viciously. "Bastard! Doesn't he have enough gold medals already?!"

Coach tapped him on the shoulder. "Malkin, you're up."

Sasha knocked their shoulders together and pulled Zhenya's helmet straps until he could whisper in his ear. "You can do it, Zhenya. Ignore the pressure, visualise what you want, make it happen."

And then Zhenya was on the ice, skating a quick circle as he focused his mind and warmed up his muscles, looking down the ice at Canada's goalie. He can do this; he will do this. He nods to himself, decided, and bites down on his mouthguard, jaw clenched, head down and chin up.

He skates.

He scores.

His jaw drops open and he stares at the goal behind him, almost disbelieving — but yes, that's the puck, in the back of the net, and Carey Price head down and knees sagging as he slumps in defeat — then whips around to grin at the Russian bench, at Sasha, at all the Russian fans screaming in the stands. He holds his hand out for fistbumps from his team — because he did it, he scored! -- and then clambers past them onto the bench, getting hugged and head-slapped and patted on the back all the way, to get back to his seat.

The announcer calls it, and Sasha whoops in his ear and grabs him in a headlock. "I knew you could do it! You beauty!"

Then Canada send Kessel out. Everyone tenses up and Sasha starts hissing, "Miss it! Fall over! Break a leg, you bastard. Miss, miss, miss—"

—and Kessel misses it, Sergei Bobrovsky grabbing the puck out of the air with ease, like it was aimed at his hand.

"YES!!!" Zhenya screams and bounces to his feet, celebrating, Sasha under his arm shouting equally loudly, "YES!" The entire team are on their feet, whooping and shouting praise at their beautiful, glorious goalie. 

From his goal, Sergei waves at them, grinning behind his mask.

Then it's Russia's turn to take their shot. "Ovechkin," says Coach, and Zhenya hugs Sasha — "you can do it, I believe in you," — knocks their helmets together, wordless, and lets him go. 

Sasha puts on a grin as he skates out, waving at the crowd, then circles, face falling into a serious frown, eyes intense as he concentrates, shutting out everything but the puck, the ice, and the goal he's going to score. He looks terrifying like this, like a god of hockey. 

Zhenya leans forward, chewing on his lip.

Sasha skates forward.

He shoots.

He scores.

He scores, and Russia wins.

Russia wins.

Russia wins Olympic Gold.

And Zhenya knows that he's screaming, that his team's screaming, but he can't hear it, can't feel it, can't feel his body; all he can feel is joy.

Because Russia's won.

Olympic Gold.

He hits Sasha in a mess of screaming team-mates, arm around his waist, his neck, screaming in his ear as Sasha screams back at him, Everyone open-mouthed with joy. 

Because they've just won an Olympic Gold medal. 

Because Sasha won it for them, with that last beauty of a shot.

God, he loves him. "I love you!" Zhenya screams, pulling him in by the neck of his Team Russia jersey, then smacks a kiss at his cheek, knocking his loose helmet back and half-hitting his mouth instead as their team jostle them, screaming in joy.

Sasha pulls his loose helmet off his head and throws it in the air. "WE WON! WE WON GOLD, ZHENYA!!!" And grabs Zhenya by the face, squeezing his cheeks forward until he's pouting like a fish, and smacks a kiss square on his lips. 

Zhenya laughs at him, and then Sasha's being kissed by Kovy, who's clutching at the K on his shirt and crying with joy, and Zhenya's getting half-strangled by one of the rookies, babbling incoherently about Russia, and Gold, and— 

They've won. They're won GOLD. At the Olympics.

Olympic Gold.

It's not Sochi, but winning gold for Russia in South Korea with Sasha is still better than winning the Stanley Cup. Zhenya's cheeks hurt, he's smiling so hard; he may never stop smiling. Sasha squeezes him tighter, laughing in his ear. Zhenya wants this moment, this pure joy and love, to last forever.

 

 

Zhenya doesn't remember much after that. There's Toews with the most insincere "Good game" Zhenya's ever heard, trying to break his hand as he gripped it and dropped it, Carey Price looking like he wanted to cry, a flash of Sid at the end of the handshake line, tight-lipped and sad-eyed, but still giving Zhenya a sincerely congratulatory shoulder-clap because Sid is pure steel about hockey and pure class all the way when he knows cameras are watching him.

Then, there are journalists asking stupid questions and English is still a stupid language, but all the answers are so good, he wants the interviews to go on forever: "Yes, we won, we won gold, did you see Sasha's goal? It was amazing, I knew he could do it. No, I never doubted him! He's the best, the best, Russia's the best team, best day of my life, we won, yes, we won gold!" He can't stop smiling; his cheeks hurt, his legs ache, he can barely feel it, he feels so good; like he could leap across the sea and fly home to show his family his gold medal.

Sasha bounces across the room and photo-bombs him, grabbing him around the chest and waist and almost lifting him off his feet, smashing a wet, sloppy kiss against his cheek, shouting, "Zhenyaaa!" in his ear. He hold on like an octopus, hands everywhere, and Zhenya lets him, both of them laughing. Sasha beams at the journalist, yelling, "Evgeni best, you know, best center! We win all medals now, you know," he laughs, ruffling Zhenya's hair. "Tell Crosby I'm keep him now, never let go!" He picks Zhenya up as if he's actually going to carry him off, and the journalists laugh with them. Then the Sergeis crash into them in a mess of hugging arms and clutching arms, roaring joy in his ears, and Sasha is off again, bounding across the room to harass... someone else. He doesn't know what he said to the journalists after that, reduced to repeating "Russia best, Sasha best, so happy!" by the end of the English interviews, crying with joy. 

He's in the locker room, team-mates spraying him with champagne, sticky and fizzy on his skin as he strips off his sweaty game kit. He's hugging Coach, kissing Sergei Bobrovsky on both cheeks. He's pouring more champagne down a half-naked Sasha's throat as he tipped his head back, dark hair dripping as he closed his mouth, the champagne pouring down his neck and across his chest. Sasha shaking his head like a wet dog, laughing as he sprayed Zhenya and everyone around them with sweat and champagne. 

Everyone hugging and pounding each other on the back in the shower, bouncing on their toes as they laughed and joked and wrestled like children at the beach, punching each other in the arms and tickling sensitive spots, shouting out repeats of the best plays, a mix of extravagant compliments and teasing chirps, passing around more bottles of champagne and swigging good Russian vodka like cheap beer.

The organisers somehow shepherd them all into taxis and back to their quarters, where they changed and grabbed some food from a buffet someone had set up even as the Team Russia party continued. Zhenya lost track of time, of team-mates, hugging and hanging off of whoever was nearest, so happy and so, so drunk.

Then somehow they'd moved to a club someone had found, out in the town. And Sasha dragged him into a dark corner of an employee-only back room, judging by the mops and buckets and stacks of boxes, and pushed him up against a wall. "I love you," he slurred. "Your goal, in the semi-finals, that was a beautiful goal."

"No no, your goal was beautiful. An Olympic gold goal." Zhenya threw his arms around Sasha's neck and leaned their foreheads together. "You're beautiful." He leaned forward, angling his face just so and letting his mouth fall open, Sasha pushing forward to meet him, and they kissed, chapped lips and the taste of champagne, up against a wall in a dark backroom in a bar in Pyeongchang.

God, Sasha had a filthy tongue. Zhenya opened his mouth wider and sucked on it. Sasha pulled back for a moment, kissing down Zhenya's neck. Zhenya threw his head back, whined at the warm, wet, sucking kisses along his throat, under his jaw, and lifted a leg, wrapping it around Sasha's hips, knee scraping against the plaster, pulling him in tighter.

Sasha dropped his hands from Zhenya's waist to grip his ass instead, angling his hips up and tighter in, grinding their cocks together; Zhenya had to drop his leg so he could brace himself properly for a hard, filthy grind with his hips, hands clutching at Sasha as they moved together. 

Zhenya closed his eyes and panted, open-mouthed, chest rubbing against Sasha's, feeling their gold medals through their shirts. He groped at Sasha's medal, pulling the ribbon taut and pressing the medal against his chest. "You won us gold; you get whatever you want tonight, baby."

"Only tonight?" Sasha raised an eyebrow, "I think I deserve more than that. Whatever I want, for the next four years?" He grinned, still so bright-eyed, then he ducked his head to bite at Zhenya's neck, a hand groping roughly at Zhenya's cock through his pants. "I want you, Zhenya."

Zhenya arched against him and came in his pants like a teenager, clutching at Sasha's gold medal through his shirt.

Sasha giggled into his neck. "Did you just—? I am never letting you live this down. I am a sex god!"

"Shut up," Zhenya muttered, and tucked his face into the crook of Sasha's neck, hiding. "It's your fault anyway, winning gold with such a filthy goal—" he tugged at Sasha's medal "—and getting me drunk."

"I won gold," Sasha whispered in Zhenya's ear, laughing, then clutched at his arms. "WE won gold, Zhenya!"

"Yes we did. We deserve sex for that," he said, nodding, and rolled his hips against Sasha's still-hard cock. Sasha shuddered in his arms, and Zhenya opened his mouth against the warm sweaty skin of Sasha's neck, slightly bitter with cologne, and started sucking. 

"Sex, yes." Sasha shuddered harder, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it off, one-handed. He groped through Zhenya's pockets, pulled out his phone, and jabbed at it, dropping it into his jacket pocket as he stripped it off and dropped it on the floor. Sasha spun Zhenya round, leaning back against the wall and pushing at Zhenya's shoulder as his stripped Zhenya's jacket down his back and off his arms.. "Zhenya, Zhenya, please," he gasped, arching his hips.

Zhenya fell to his knees and nosed at Sasha's pants, breathing in his musky scent, sweat and champagne. 

Fingers shaking, Sasha undid his too-tight jeans and shoved them down his thighs. "Zhenya, please," he begged as his cock tented his underwear.

Zhenya moaned and rubbed his face against it, licking at the warm weight through the cloth, eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled.

"Zhenya, look at me, look up," Sasha demanded. "I won gold!" he crowed, pulling his medal to hang straight against his Team Russia shirt. "Let me see yours!"

"Oh god yes," Zhenya gasped, and pulled on his own medal, settling it against his chest with one hand, leaning back a little so Sasha could see it better. 

Sasha clutched at his own medal, biting his lip as he looked down at Zhenya, his gold shining even in the dark storage room. He reached out with his other hand and ran it through Zhenya's hair, cupping his head in his hand. "Zhenya—" He stopped, sniffling and blinking, suddenly overcome by emotion as often happened to Sasha when he was truly drunk.

Zhenya covered his hand and leaned his head into their shared hold. "I know, Sasha. I love you too."

Sasha sniffed and wiped at his eyes. "We won, Zhenya," he said, in a small voice. "We finally did it." He sounded like he still didn't believe it, like Sidney and Team Canada might burst in at any minute to take their medals away. Zhenya checked the door, just in case of surprise Canadians — but no, still closed.

He closed a hand around his own medal and caressed it, reaching the other hand up to stroke his fingertips across Sasha's medal. Sasha clutched his hand, blinking as he sniffled back his tears and smiled down at Zhenya, a slowly-growing smile of pure joy. "I love you, Zhenya. So much. I couldn't have done it without you."

Zhenya leaned forward and kissed his hip, nose not-so-accidentally nudging at Sasha's cock where it was stretching his underwear obscenely. "We did it," he said. "You did it." He looked up at Sasha through his eyelashes, bit his lip and slowly let it go. "You deserve a reward, yes?" he whispered, breathing out against Sasha's cock, fallen to half-hard; under his breath, Sasha's cock twitched and hardened.

Sasha's eyes widened, his mouth falling open, and he looked down at Zhenya's chest, his gold medal, further down — Zhenya spread his legs obligingly, showing off his own cock, still semi-hard and tenting his underwear out under Sasha's gaze — then back up to Zhenya's mouth. "Zhenya," he breathed, and started fumbling with his own underwear, cursing the damp fabric that clung to his cock.

Zhenya helped him free his cock, dragging his underwear down to his knees, his ankles, stroking down Sasha's strong, hairy thighs and up his calves, hair crinkling against his palms. Zhenya leaned back a little and admired the sexy picture Sasha made, better than any faked porn, half-naked against a wall, gold medal across Team Russia's crest rising and falling with Sasha's every breath, his muscles already twitching and shivering with arousal under his skin. Sasha's cock had fallen out from his stomach, too heavy to stand upright without the underwear holding it there, listing to the side a little, so adorable that Zhenya always had to smile at it; he dropped a teasing kiss on the leaking tip, then flicked out his tongue to lick away Sasha's pre-come.

Sasha caressed the side of his face, breathing out a worshipful "Zhenya" as he rubbed a thumb across Zhenya's lower lip, pulling it gently down and letting go to watch it bounce back, his eyes fixated on Zhenya's mouth, so close to his cock every breath out made it twitch and bob in the air. 

"Yes." Zhenya licked his lips, catching Sasha's thumb in a burst of salt and Sasha against his tongue, then pursed his lips and blew out a harder breath, just to watch Sasha's cock twitch and leak, untouched. 

"Yes, please, Zhenya," Sasha begged, his hand curling back around Zhenya's neck, fingertips scratching deliciously across his scalp and up into his hair, urging his on, as if anything could keep him away from Sasha's cock tonight; he was going to give him the best blowjob he could. Impatient, Sasha thrust his hips forward, and Zhenya dodged backwards, grinning up at his lover.

"No rush; I'm going to take you apart tonight," he said, reaching out to gently cup Sasha's high, tight balls and rub a knuckle over his perineum until Sasha threw his head back. "This is just the start, baby." 

"Damn, Zhenya!" Sasha cursed and thumped a fist back against the wall. "Damn you, please, Zhenya, please," Sasha begged, hips twitching again as he held back from grabbing and thrusting. 

Zhenya licked his lips, looking up at Sasha as he dropped his mouth open and licked out, dragging his tongue in a broad, filthy swipe up the underside from the base to the tip, letting it rest on his tongue, open-mouthed as he breathed teasingly over the head, one hand clenching in Zhenya's hair and the other fist pounding against his own thigh.

Zhenya smirked up at him, then leaned forward and breathed in the scent he loved so much. He licked at the head, soft skin and the sharp taste of pre-come, sucking Sasha's cock slowly into his mouth, teasing him with flicks of his tongue just where Sasha liked it, feeling his cock twitch and swell in his mouth, stretching his jaw. Under his hands, Sasha's abs and thighs trembled, and Zhenya crinkled his eyes up in a smile, tightening his grip, hands slipping slightly against Sasha's sweat-slick skin as he ran his hands up and down his thighs. 

Sasha moaned, arching his back and tensing as Zhenya sucked him in, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue around the head. Zhenya opened his eyes and looked up Sasha's body, the gold medal glinting in the dim light, flashing with reflected sparkles even in the dimness, a perfect gift against the Russian eagle crest on his shirt. Zhenya moaned and sucked harder, raising his eyes from the medal to Sasha's face, wanting to watch him come undone. Sasha's hands tightened then loosened in Zhenya's hair, pulling at his scalp just the way he loved it, and Sasha's mouth dropped open on a panted, stuttering moan, eyelids fluttering. 

His own cock twitched in sympathy with Sasha's, and Zhenya moaned around Sasha's cock and let his own eyelashes flutter, pressing the heel of his hand against the base of his cock and tilting his head back to let Sasha's cock slide deeper, as deep as he could get it. God knew, Zhenya loved him, but he wasn't going to let him come over his beautiful new gold medal, no matter how much Sasha would love the visuals. Zhenya opened his eyes a slit, and looked up at Sasha, his head thrown back, throat arched and sweat glinting off his skin as he panted, moaning.

Sasha's cock twitched against Zhenya's tongue and Zhenya ran his tongue over the pulse he could feel; Sasha was close. Zhenya moaned around his cock, pressing harder against his own cock, and sucked harder. Sasha yelped "Zhen-aaah!" and curled forward sharply, his hands falling to Zhenya's shoulders and clutching there as he doubled over, abs shuddering against Zhenya's forehead as he came, shuddering harder each time Zhenya sucked and swallowed, easing him through it.

Sasha sagged, all his weight on Zhenya for a moment as his knees folded. Zhenya braced his hips to help hold him up and turned to little gentle licks around his cock, running his hands up the back of Sasha's thighs and kneading gently at his glutes. Sasha's softening cock spurted weakly across his tongue, and Sasha shuddered in his arms, hugging his head, and Zhenya loved it, loved the hot swollen feeling of his puffy lips, Sasha's cock softening in his mouth, so vulnerable and delicate, the filthy taste of spunk down his throat, the smell of sweat and come and musky sex. The feel of Sasha's sweaty skin sliding across his own as they panted, Sasha's hands trembling in his hair as he petted at him, stroking down his back with shaky fingers, clutching at his shoulders

 

 

Next morning, Zhenya woke up in Sasha's bed in their shared room, his neck covered with love-bites and his hips covered with fingertip bruises, Sasha's arms wrapped possessively around his waist, hips and knees nudged up behind his, their legs twined together. Sasha's breath was hot on the back of his neck, and his skin was sticky with sweat and lube and come, sticking to Sasha's skin as he moved.

Both of them were naked, except for their gold medals. Zhenya groaned as he stretched, grinned even as his cheeks twinged, sore from all the smiling and laughing he'd been doing, body sore from great hockey and even better sex. 

"Stay here," Sasha whined. "I won gold, I get to have what I want, and I want you," he said, arching his hips and rubbing hist mostly-soft cock up against Zhenya's ass. 

Zhenya groaned. "Not again, Sasha. I love you, but you're not small, and my ass is sore." He wriggled free. "Also, I need the bathroom. Shower sex?" He stood up, stretched and yawned.

"Did I say anything about fucking you?" Sasha reached up and nudged him in the side with a sharp finger. "Roll me over and fuck me."

Zhenya's eyes flew open and he blinked, his cock stiffening up fast at the mention of Sasha's ass. "Why do I have to do all the work?" Zhenya grumbled on principle, reaching down and pulling at Sasha until he stood up.

"Aaaarghhhh," moaned Sasha as he stood up, swaying a little and thunking his head down on Zhenya's collarbone. "Why did I drink so much?" He swirled his tongue around his mouth and made a face. "What did I drink — it wasn't that horse-piss yak's milk stuff you gave me last summer?"

"No, you're just hungover as hell." Zhenya snorted and threw Sasha's arm over his shoulder, pulling him into the bathroom and shoving him into the tiny shower. "You need more water," he said, and leaned him up against the back wall and turned the shower on. 

"Bastard!" Sasha yelped and flinched away from the cold water. He grabbed Zhenya and tried to wrestle him under the cold spray, but the cubicle was just too small for two hockey players. "I was promised shower sex," he grumbled, washing himself quickly as Zhenya brushed his teeth, pouring themselves both a glass of tapwater.

"That was before I remembered how tiny this bathroom is," Zhenya said. "You can have as much shower sex as you want when we get back to your place in Washington, how about that?"

"Ugh, fine!" Sasha rinsed his hair out. "But I want morning sex before breakfast. Lunch. Whatever time it is."

Zhenya laughed at him. "You think we'll have time for that, before the interviews and ceremonies?"

"I think you should make time, for your Captain, who won you Olympic Gold," Sasha said, snapping his towel at Zhenya's arse.

Zhenya leaned over and kissed his sternum. "That's not going to work forever, you know. Brush your teeth," he said, shoving Sasha's face away, "you stink. And drink some water!"

"It doethn't need to work forevuh," Sasha mumbled around his toothbrush, "jutht the nextht four yearth!"

Zhenya scrubbed a towel over his hair, dropped it over the rail, and sauntered back into their bedroom. "In your dreams, Sasha!"

"I deserve four years of sex favours, Zhenya." Sasha trailed after him, throwing himself on the bed and starfishing across the mattress. "Because I'm the one who won us Olympic gold," Sasha said, yawning and stretching like a lazy cat, letting himself flop back onto the bed, arms and legs falling wherever. "Well, get on with it then," he said, and let a leg fall to the side, cock just starting to harden up.

"Lazy," Zhenya said, looking over the picture Sasha made, spread out on the bed and all for Zhenya. "Demanding," he said, and leaned down to kiss him. "So much trouble."

"Mmm," Sasha said, cupping his cock with one hand and stroking it gently. "Lies. You love me. You love my ass." He arched his hips, a little, and tucked an arm under his head. "Tuck a pillow under my hips before you open me up." He smirked up at Zhenya, sleepy eyes half-closed, cock almost fully hard under his hand, starting to leak against his taut stomach.

Zhenya huffed and rolled his eyes. "So lazy." He pulled over a pillow and tried to remember where he'd packed the lube.

Sasha opened easily under his hands, relaxed and eager for it, so easy. "So easy," Zhenya said, grinning down at him.

"For you? Always," Sasha said, blatantly ignoring all the trouble he caused. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—"

"So impatient!" Zhenya fumbled with the condom, fingers slick with lube, and swore at the stupid packaging.

"Give me that!" Sasha plucked it from his hands and tossed it aside. "We don't need that! Fuck me!"

And, well, who was Zhenya to deny the man who'd scored the gold-medal-winning goal?

 

 

Zhenya turned his phone back on, and jumped as it immediately started ringing. Sasha's phone was even worse, since he'd set it to play a truly terrible ringtone really loudly. Before he could even say hello, someone was shouting. Zhenya opened his mouth to reply, slammed it shut when he realised what kind of vitriolic insults the other person was spewing, and stabbed the 'end call' button. His phone started ringing again, and he ignored it; he didn't have to take that kind of abuse from anyone. 

"Check your messages," Sasha said quietly, in a shaky voice, covering his own phone, still pressed to his ear. 

Zhenya looked over, and dropped his phone; Sasha was pale and sweating. "What's wrong?"

"Check your messages," Sasha said, then took a deep breath. "They've found out about us. We've been outed." He bit his lip and blinked hard, looking like he might cry.

Zhenya quickly pulled up the internet on his phone, fingers shaking as his stomach roiled: "RUSSIA'S MYSTERY GAYLYMPIANS!" said one headline, from six hours ago, and Zhenya swallowed, hard; "The search for Russia's gay athletes continues," said another, two hours ago; "No Comment From Team Russia" said a third. All of them were illustrated with the same few still images, dim and badly-angled: Zhenya and Sasha, in the bar's backroom, and even with the strategically-located blurring, it was obvious what they were doing. The camera almost directly overhead probably the only thing that had saved them this long...

"Fucking HELL!" Zhenya threw his phone away, fell down, gasping, breathless, and luckily hit the bed; he folded down over his stomach, curling his arms around his head, like if he could block his ears, hide his eyes, if he couldn't hear it or see it...

Sasha bounced down onto the bed beside him, warm against his side, and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug, saying, "Zhenya, Zhenya, breathe — it'll be alright, we'll be fine, Zhenya, breathe."

"Sasha, Sasha—" Zhenya grabbed his t-shirt and shoved his face into Sasha's neck, hiding, and suddenly started to sob, great tearing sobs that wrenched at his muscles and made him twist and ache, convulsing with tears.

Sasha wrapped his arms around Zhenya, dropping kisses on Zhenya's head and murmuring reassurances, even as he started to cry himself. "Oh, God. O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me, a sinner—"

Zhenya sniffled, and murmured along with Sasha's prayers: "—O Holy Angel of God, guardian and protector of my soul and body, forgive me every transgression which I have committed this day. Deliver me from all evil influences and temptations, so that I may not anger my God by any sin. Pray for me that the Lord may make me worthy of His grace and to become partaker of His eternal Kingdom with the help of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the Saints. Amen." He raised his head enough to cross himself, then tucked his face back down against Sasha's strong chest.

Sasha rocked him a little, and dropped another kiss on his head, laying his head atop Zhenya's. "You can't hide forever, Zhenya. They're going to find out it's us. We will have to face them some time."

Zhenya nodded, keeping his face hidden as he breathed deep, then wrapped his arms around Sasha's waist and squeezed. "Not right now, though." He grinned against Sasha's chest, turning his head to smirk up at him, "five more minutes, Mama!"

Sasha snorted and pulled him into a headlock, ruffling his hair. "I'm not your Mama, thank God! But you can have as much time as you need. Hours, days, weeks, months..."

"Liar." Zhenya curled up against him, clinging, as Sasha clung to him. "Don't tempt me." He sighed, brushing out the creases in Sasha's shirt over his warm skin. "What will we do?"

"Well, we certainly can't deny it," Sasha said, shaking his head. "So! We follow the plan. Parents first, then our agents., then..."

"The Caps and the Pens," Zhenya said decisively.

"Coward," Sasha said.

"If you're so brave, you can be the one to tell Team Russia and the Olympic people."

Sasha shuddered. "No thanks."

He picked his phone up off the bed and flicked through it, frowning, then showed Zhenya a webpage: the images were altered, much clearer, and accompanied by more footage from a different security camera, and Zhenya started cursing under his breath. Even lightened up, the backroom video was dark and grainy, from a strange overhead angle and blurred in places — but the new footage was obviously him and Sasha, Team Russia jackets, gold medals gleaming through the dimness. The headline, "Mystery Gay Russians Identified!", with their names and faces underneath— 

Zhenya shuddered, and hid his face again, gasping like he'd taken a bad hit; Sasha curled a hand around his skull, stroking his fingers through his hair; Zhenya squeezed him tight. "I love you. Don't, don't—" 'leave me,' he couldn't say, gasping for breath.

"I love you too. Idiot." Sasha grabbed the nape of his neck and shook him. "We're in this together, Zhenya. You and me, remember?"

"You and me," Zhenya agreed, raising his head. He let his forehead fall against Sasha's, so close his face went blurry. "We just won gold together," he said, "together, we can do this," he lied. Because it was a lie, it would be terrible, the worst, but. What choice did they have, now, but to push through it, together?

"Yeah." Sasha tsked, and wiped Zhenya's eyes, then his own. "Yeah, we can."

Zhenya snorted — Sasha was a worse liar than he was; his true emotions were all over his face — and mustered up a weak smile, kissing him on the cheek. "Worth it," he said, consoling them both with the truth: "I love you."

"Love you," Sasha gasped out, and hid hid face in Zhenya's neck, starting to cry again.

 

 

Zhenya pulled himself together and pulled out his tablet, opening up Skype. Ignoring his phone, he called his parents first. His Papa answered, looking exhausted and upset. "Zhenya, thank god. Are you somewhere safe? Are they looking after you?"

"I'm safe, papa. I...I haven't spoken to the team yet. I just, I wanted—" Zhenya stalled. How could he talk to his father about he pictures online, the video clips? He looked away, chewing on the inside of his mouth.

His father sighed, and sagged a little, looking old. "Zhenya, we still love you. We don't approve of what you did—"

Zhenya flinched, and huddled down.

"—it's not about the, the gay stuff. But, a bar, Zhenya? I would expect better of you than that if you were still dating women, so." Papa shrugged, and then scowled at Zhenya. "You need to apologise to your mother though. People are already talking about this."

Zhenya took a deep shuddering breath and looked his father in the eye. "I'm sorry, Papa. I'll tell Mama, too. Is she there?"

Papa turned around and called out, "Natalia! Evgeni called to apologise for his behaviour!"

Natalia opened the door and strode in. "Evgeni Vladimirovitch Malkin!"

Zhenya flinched again and looked up; across the room, Sasha flinched back, waving his hands no-no-no, and pointing to his own phone, the coward.

"Hello Mama," Zhenya said, and braced himself. He deserved a lecture; he'd told his parents, and they'd met Sasha, but there was no excuse for dropping them into the middle of a situation like this, with the press and harassment that would follow.

His Mama's lecture was lengthy, and Zhenya cried twice and apologised constantly. In the end, Mama just shook her head at him, muttering "Oh, Zhenya, what am I going to do with you?"

"I would be happy to make suggestions, Mama," Sasha said, smiling sweetly, because he was charming and spoilt and Zhenya's Mama loved him and he knew it.

"Oh, you!" Mama giggled. "You're a terrible boy!" Then she turned to Zhenya. "You should be more like Sasha, Zhenya, he—"

Somebody knocked on their door, and Sasha and Zhenya both froze. "Sorry Mama, I have to go. I love you!" Zhenya pulled himself together and went to answer it. "Sergei?" 

"Room service!" he said, and pushed a cart in. "I ordered you breakfast, you always forget to eat when you're brooding." He caught sight of Sasha, and smiled. "Can't have the Captain fainting, can we."

"No we cannot," said Semin, pushing in behind him, clapping Zhenya on the shoulder as he went past.

"Would set a terrible example," Bobrovsky agreed, and held up three bottles. "Vodka, the real stuff. You'll need it." 

Behind him, Semyon Varlamov nodded, holding up two more bottles in one hand and six glasses in the other. "Friends who bring alcohol are the best friends, but I need to put these glasses down before I drop them. Can I-?"

Zhenya stepped back, and a procession of Russians trooped into the room, followed by Dima Orlov and Kuzny, who'd brought Brooks Orpik with him.looking sheepish in his Team Canada gear.

"Brooksy?"

"Hey Geno," he said, and folded Zhenya into a warm hug, slapping him on the back. "I'm only staying until you're too drunk to speak english anymore."

"So, ten minutes, then," chirped Gonch, and shoved a glass into Zhenya's hand.

Two of the Russian rookies followed Brooks in, looking terrified but determined, and Zhenya's jaw dropped; he hadn't expected this much support from his team, not with things how they were in Russia.

Sasha was looking around at all their team-mates, grinning and hugging and accepting backslaps, and Zhenya had to turn his head aside. Gonch snorted and pulled Zhenya's head into his shoulder. Across the room, Dima was toasting Sasha — "One of the best goals I've ever seen!" — and everyone roared and drank, and Zhenya gulped down a drink and pretended that's why his eyes were watering.

"Let's get this party started!" someone shouted, and everyone whooped and hollered, and Zhenya grinned across the room at Sasha, and let Gonch ruffle his hair.

 

 

After everyone left, well-fed and still mostly-sober, Zhenya called his American agent. J.P. Barry was a good man, and they had a plan for this, unlike his Russian agent, who'd always told him to stay in the closet. "J.P. Barry?" he said, "It's me, Zhenya, and..." he couldn't think how to say it, but. "It's me. In the pictures. Me, and Ovi. We're—" He took a deep breath; he'd never really told anyone this before, not so bluntly, but the time for secrets was over now. "—dating. In a relationship. We've been together for years, since rookies, but... It's hard, long-distance, so on and off, you know." He waved a hand, helpless.

J.P. Barry let out a breath. "Of course it is. You don't want to deny it," he stated, more an instruction than a question.

"No, no, we know we can't— Also, we don't want to, you know?. It's not how we would have wanted to come out, but." Zhenya shrugged, even though J.P. Barry couldn't see him. "What's done is done, and what can you do?"

J.P. Barry smiled. "Quite a lot, with what you've given me. You'd be surprised." He shuffled some papers, and squinted at his laptop. "I'll co-ordinate our efforts with the Penguins and the Caps, Sasha's agent... I assume you'll want joint statements and interviews? You're happy revealing this is a long-term relationship, and how long you've been together?"

Zhenya looked over at Sasha. "Yeah. Yes." Then he shook his head. "But not, no criticism of Masha or Oksana or anyone. We aren't gay, we—" Zhenya's mind went blank. "—how do you say it both?" 

J.P. Barry blinked. "Uh, bi? Bisexual? Or, I suppose you could say pansexual—"

"Bisexual," Zhenya said. "We'll say that. And we didn't cheat, the girls, they weren't, you know, beards? Is that right word?"

J.P. Barry nodded, smiling. "That's good to know, very helpful." He looked at his laptop again, looked up, carefully blank-faced. "And...your Russian agents?"

Zhenya tensed up. "Haven't spoken to them yet."

"You know you need to do that soon. We'll need to know who we're working with on this."

Zhenya chewed on his lip and nodded. "Will do. I will do it, yes."

"Do you want to co-ordinate with Team Russia as well, and the people at the Olympics? We've had some vague enquiries, but we've been stalling them—"

"We haven't spoken to Team Russia yet. We only found out half an hour ago, called parents first, haven't left room yet—"

"I understand." He raised a calming hand. "That wasn't a criticism, Evgeni." J.P. Barry tried giving him a reassuring smile; Zhenya just tensed up even more. J.P. Barry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, look, let me know when you've spoken to your agents and if you want to talk to Team Russia and the Olympics people yourselves, or I can handle that for you. I'm here to support you, Zhenya. The circumstances may not be ideal, but I will do whatever I can to help you through this, okay? You and Sasha both."

Zhenya teared up again, pressed his lips together as his throat closed up on a sob, and just nodded, fast. 

"Okay. Okay," J.P. Barry said. "Anything you need, Zhenya — flights, room service, dry cleaning, airing out your houses back home — anything, you just let me know and me and my people will handle it for you, okay?"

Zhenya wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, choked out a gruff-voiced, "Thanks. Mean it — Thank you. Best agent, best."

 

 

 

Zhenya looked at his phone, tapped it against his teeth consideringly, tossed it from hand to hand, and finally chickened out and sent a quick, bland email to Gennady, and CC'd it to Team Russia, telling everyone the facts and telling them to co-ordinate with J.P. Barry and each other. 

Then he curled up against Sasha's back, and considered: Sid or Mario? Mario was the owner, but also a Catholic, and there was the time difference; Sid was still in Korea, so Sid it was. He skyped Sidney; if he couldn't trust Sid to have his back, he couldn't trust anyone on the Pens.

"Zhenya!" Sid smiled at him from an identical-looking hotel room, tired-looking but still hawk-eyed. "Are you okay?"

Zhenya immediately relaxed. "Hey Sid. We're—" he waved a hand "—could be worse, you know?"

Sasha snorted, and muttered in English, "How? How it could be worse?" Zhenya elbowed him, and he swore in Russian.

Sid leaned forward, his shoulders up around his ears. "I've spoken to Mario already—"

Because of course he'd spoken to Mario already, because Sid always had to have a plan, and also always had Zhenya's back. Zhenya shook his head and smiled at him.

"—and we want to support you, both of you, whatever you need." He took a breath and dropped his shoulders. "I, we haven't made any statements yet. I didn't know what you'd want me to say, and Mario didn't want to put out anything until we knew how you wanted to handle it. So tell me what you need from me and the team, G."

Zhenya relaxed, and grinned at him. "Don't know, depends, you know. If you build new house, how many bodies can you bury under?"

Sid laughed and shook his head. "Don't tempt me, Zhenya. But I couldn't possibly murder esteemed members of the press and bury them under the house." He blinked innocently and put on his choirboy expression. "They'd stink the place out."

Zhenya laughed. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "About statement, we haven't decide yet. We tell agents, let them handle it, with Pens, NHL, everyone. Not like it can get any worse, now, so we aren't deny it. We say, yes, is us, we are bisexual — whatever," Zhenya waved a hand, "fucking deal with it or fuck the fuck off, only more polite, you know?"

"'More polite' than fuck you all, yeah, that'd be good." Sid snorted. "Okay, so I'll give you both a personal, generic statement of support, with no swearwords—"

Zhenya blew out a breath, shaky with relief, and wiped at his eyes; he hadn't really thought that Sid would, that he'd— but it was such a relief to know for sure. 

Sasha patted his knee, whispering, "I told you we could trust our teams."

Zhenya sniffled again, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose, trying to get his composure back.

"—hey," Sid said, "Hey, I've always got your back, G—"

"You should listen to me more often, all the time," Sasha said. "I am always right!"

"Excuse please, Sid, have to beat up Sasha, say he always right." Zhenya dropped his laptop, ignoring Sid's sputtering "What? No way is he always—" on the bed and wrestled Sasha into submission.

Once Sasha had conceded that no, he was not in fact always right, Zhenya let him sit up again, and pulled his laptop back open. "Sorry Sid, matter of honour."

"I understand," SId said. "It must be so hard for you, having to cope with him all the time, so difficult—"

"Hey!" Sasha yelped.

"Very true, constant struggle, nobody understand my pain," Zhenya agreed solemnly.

"Oh, I see how it is now! Conspiring against me already? You want talk of pain, I'll give you pain," Sasha said — in english, for Sid's benefit — and pinched him.

Zhenya yelped and smacked his hand away. 

"Do you want me to report him for spousal abuse?" Sid asked Zhenya, projecting solicitousness and caring.

"What?" Sasha yelped. "Anyway can't. We not spouses, not marry."

"You could though. You'd look good in a tux, Zhenya," Sid said, "and Sasha wouldn't ruin it, too much."

"I look very good in tuxedo, because I have my suits tailored. Much better than certain fat-ass Canadian, buys suits off rack. I make people cry, I look so good."

Unexpectedly, Sid just nodded agreeably onscreen. "Oh yes, black suit, white shirt, gold accents, you'd look great, Sasha—"

Zhenya bit his lip, holding back a giggle.

"—but not gaudy gold, tasteful, elegant, to suit you and Evgeni—"

Sasha nodded along, pointing a finger at Sid. "Yes, I am very elegant! Maybe you not as bad as I always say, Crosby—"

"Yes," Zhenya nodded, "sounds very elegant and tasteful to me, perfect." He grinned at Sasha.

"—so you agree to marry Zhenya wearing nice, tasteful, elegant black tuxedo and white, of course—" 

"Yes, yes," Sasha nodded.

"—and Vegas gold?"

"— wait, WHAT?!" Sasha jaw dropped, and he looked from Sid, to Zhenya, and back again. "Never! I'm wear Caps colours! Red and blue, Like Russian flag, better than Pens everything!"

"I'm sorry, Sasha but both Zhenya and I heard you make a verbal agreement, and under international law, that counts as legally binding—"

"Yep, you agree now, Sasha. I hear, Sid hear, we hold you to promise!" Zhenya snorted at Sid's gleefully evil face, then curled up laughing at the look of outrage on Sasha's face.

"Right," Sid said, with his blandest troll-face on. "Do you want me to include your engagement in my statement or leave you to announce it yourselves?" He tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't hold back the grin.

Sasha pointed at him again, leaning in to Zhenya's laptop to be sure the camera would pick it up. "You are evil, Sidney Crosby!" He pointed from his eyes to Sid's face, and scowled. "I watch you now. Remember!"

"I feel so threatened," SId said, deadpan, then straightened up and leaned forward. "Seriously, though — I've had some enquiries." He looked down at something in his hand, a piece of paper. "You're not the only guys in the NHL who want to come out." He waved the folded paper at them. "Seven Canadians, three Europeans, and an American, so far. They're not sure what you'd want, and I didn't tell them anything, obviously — but, well, they wanted to help. And by 'help', I mean they're willing to go public, make statements — even come out." He unfolded the paper and held it up to the camera. "Here, can you read that?"

Zhenya could, and so could Sasha, who made a choked sound, and turned away, wiping at his eyes again.

Sid took the list away and folded it back up. "You're not alone, guys. I've always got your back, G." He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "And I guess that means I've got yours too, Ovechkin."

Zhenya looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at Sid. "Thanks Sid, means a lot, you say that, you know?"

Sasha looked up, red-eyed and red-nosed. "What he say, Sid. Thank you, you know, and give my thanks to everyone, on list."

"I will," Sid said. "When you've put your strategy together, tell me where you need me, and I'll be there, okay? And so will the rest of these guys."

They said their goodbyes, and Sidney hung up. Zhenya stared at the laptop screen, still seeing the after-image of all those names on the list. "Did you know...?"

"I had no idea," Sasha said. "None of them, I never thought any of them were gay. Or bi. Or whatever."

Zhenya threw an arm around his shoulders, kissed him on the temple. "I didn't know either." He shook his head. "I can't believe..."

"—that there were guys on your team, and you never knew?" Sasha shook his head. "I feel bad now, I was Captain—"

"You're still Captain." 

Sasha snorted. "You really think they'll let me keep it? Captain of the Caps, maybe — but Team Russia? No."

Zhenya opened his mouth... but what could he say? He rolled his lips together and looked down. "We won gold," he grumbled, picking at the bedcover, unravelling a pulled thread.

"That's good," Sasha said, wrapping his arms tight around Zhenya's waist, patting his chest, where the medal had rested. "Because we never will again. Not for Russia."

"No," Zhenya said, in protest, in acceptance, and awkwardly tucked his head under Sasha's chin.

They sat that way until their breathing calmed, and Zhenya said, "I'm sick of crying so much."

Sasha nodded against his hair. "So we'll talk of happier things." He pulled back, tilted Zhenya's chin up. "I didn't know it was a part of NHL Captain's duties to propose for awkward teammates." He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching.

"Ugh, shut up," Zhenya said, "That wasn't my idea, that was all Sid." He gripped Sasha's wrist. "I'd do a much better job of it, it would be grand — extravagant — ridiculous! You'd love it, it would make you cry."

Sasha smiled at him. "I'm sure it would. Would there be tigers?"

"Tigers, dolphins, tropical beach, penthouse suite... I'd propose at center ice at the start of the Stanley Cup Final if I could." Zhenya looked down at the unraveled thread, pulled it apart a little more. "I was going to, next summer — I wanted to hire that place you like, back home in Moscow—" He choked up, again. 

Sasha squeezed him tighter. "After we retire," Sasha said. "I had a lot of plans, for after we retired. Fuck it!" He shoved Zhenya off his lap. 

"What?" Zhenya stumbled off the bed, standing up awkwardly. Was it too much, already? 

Sasha pulled out his suitcase, threw it on the bed, and started rummaging through it roughly. 

Zhenya took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Sasha, please—"

"Aha!" Sasha turned around, grinning, and then... went down on one knee? 

Zhenya stared down at him. He wasn't— He wouldn't— 

Sasha opened his cupped hands — cupped around a ring box, Zhenya saw — and said, "Well? What about it?"

Zhenya raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "'Well? What about it?' — that's what you call a proposal?"

Sasha shrugged. "You want it, I want it, and it's not like the world can hate us any more than it already does. So why wait?"

Zhenya gaped at him. "But— You were just talking about romance, grand gestures—" He waved both hand in the air, pointing at their oh-so-unglamorous athlete's quarters. "What about this room says glamour or romance?!"

Sasha reached out and took his hand, gazing up at him adoringly. "You're in it."

Zhenya stared down at him, caught for a moment, and then snorted and shook his head. "Nice try."

Sasha sighed and stood up, sitting on the bed and pulling Zhenya down beside him. "I always thought I'd have to wait. All my plans, they are — were — at least ten years away."

"And yet you carry a ring box with you wherever you go?" 

Sasha reached out and cupped Zhenya's cheek. "It helped, when you weren't there, when I couldn't touch you." Sasha said, quietly. "Having something to hold on to. But now — why not?" He shrugged. "I want you. I love you. Now, I can have you."

"But if we marry, Russia—"

Sasha gave him a sad look. "Zhenya. You know better. Russia will never accept us, never forgive us. We can still visit, but to live there? No. Maybe in Moscow we'd be safe, but really, who can say?" He leaned in harder. "Maybe in a few years..."

Zhenya sighed, closed his eyes. "Decades. Maybe." He wiped at his eyes again, and then shook his head; he was already tired of crying over this mess, and it was only the first day. "Okay, Yes. Give me the ring." He held his hand out impatiently, waving his fingers in front of Sasha's face.

"Really?" Sasha grabbed his hand, gripped it tight. "You, really — yes?!"

"Yes," Zhenya repeated, nodding. He twisted his fingers against Sasha's wrist, a kind of forearm clasp. "Really. Put the ring on."

 

 

After lunch, an afternoon full of Olympic ceremonies and the most awkward meetings he'd ever been to, worse than the CBA negotiations, and then a Team dinner, Zhenya fell backwards onto his bed and cursed the Olympics, PR people, camera phones, agents and managers, hockey fans, hockey coaches, the internet, Sasha's dick — "Hey! You like my dick!" Sasha shouted from their bathroom — and every journalist who ever lived. They were all bastards, all of them.

"Now that I agree with," Sasha said, briefly poking his head out of the bathroom and pointing a finger gun at Zhenya. "We should do the world a service and shoot all the journalists."

"YES," Zhenya said. "The world would give us medals for it, I'm sure." 

Back inside the bathroom, Sasha laughed. "Crosby would certainly give you anything you asked for!" He came out of the bathroom dressed in an old t-shirt and sweats, lazily scratching his belly, and then flopped onto the bed next to Zhenya with all the grace of a concussed sloth. "Aaah," he sighed, snuggling a pillow and curling his toes. "Eight glorious hours of no fucking phone calls!"

Zhenya's phone dinged.

"Augh!" Sasha cried, and wrapped the pillow around his head with both arms. "I'm not here! I'm dead! I've been abducted by aliens!"

"Relax. It's just your Mama, calling to give you even more helpful advice," Zhenya said, and ruthlessly pulled the pillow off him. "Hello, Mrs. Ovechkin. Yes. Yes, he's here," he said, and shoved the phone at Sasha.

Sasha rolled over, clutching the phone to his chest, wide-eyed; saying, low-voiced, "I will not forget this betrayal, Zhenya!"

Zhenya waved his fingers at him, grinning gleefully.

"Mama?" Sasha listened for a minute, nodding, "yes, Mama. I told them. Yes, Mama. I said exactly— yes, Mama."

Zhenya rolled onto his back and relaxed, hands folded behind his head. Mama Ovechkin was a holy terror; having her on their side felt like they would win now, no matter what, because Tatyana Ovechkina had never known how to lose at anything. 

"—and if he gives you any trouble, you tell him exactly what I told you, Sasha!" came Tatyana Ovechkina's voice through the phone.

"Yes Mama," said Sasha, nodding. "Would you like to talk to Zhenya?" he said sweetly. "I know he's been worrying about this a lot."

Zhenya sat up, mouth dropping open, but Sasha shoved the phone into his hands with an evil grin. "Ah," Zhenya said, "...hello?"

 

 

They sat together on the flight back to Washington, one of the few benefits form this clusterfuck: joint press conferences, in Washington because they both wanted to go home and be fussed over by Sasha's parents before they had to split up and go back to their NHL careers.

The other Team Russia players headed back to America were either ignoring them or offering awkward support and then fleeing to their own seats. Zhenya scowled at the retreating back of the latest player to leave, as he offered Sasha an awkward "Captain," with an even more awkward salute-handwave, and then hurried away.

Sasha squeezed his hand. "Hey, at least he stopped by to support us. That's a big deal by itself."

"I notice he didn't give any public statements of support," Zhenya said, crossing his arms and scowling at a steward.

Sasha squeezed his hand again. "Be nice, Zhenya; he's a rookie, he has his future with Team Russia to think—"

"—And we don't?!"

Sasha looked away, biting his lip and clenching his jaw.

"I'm sorry," Zhenya said, cupping his stiff shoulder and rubbing gently. "I shouldn't have said... Maybe they'll change their—"

Sasha knocked his hand away. "No. You know they won't." His voice broke. "We'll never play for Team Russia again."

Zhenya let his hand fall, and stared at his knees, then plucked the safety card out and pretended to read it; anything so he didn't have to look at Sasha's face.

Sasha's shoulders had stopped shaking by the time they were in level flight, and Sasha sniffed and rubbed his face, then tugged at Zhenya's arm. "I want to sleep. Put your seat back." 

"I don't see why I have to put my seat back when you're the one who wants to sleep," Zhenya grumbled, but he put his seat back anyway. 

Sasha just put the armrest down and curled up against Zhenya, prodding him until he moved into the best position for sleeping on an airplane. Sasha pulled the blanket over his head until only his broken nose and receding hairline were visible, tucked up against Zhenya's side.

"You're worse than a cat." Zhenya sighed, and put in his earbuds one-handed, settling in to watch a movie; it was at least a fourteen-hour flight and god knows he didn't want to do anything stupid like checking his email or the internet.

Sasha stretched then curled up tighter against Zhenya's side, warm and starting to soften into a doze. Zhenya smiled down at him and stroked his shoulder gently. "But you're worth it," he whispered, quietly, so as to let Sasha sleep.

 

 

Zhenya stepped into Sasha's home in Washington with relief, and dropped his bags in the hall with relief. Tatyana threw her arms around Sasha as soon as he stepped in the door, hugging and kissing him, murmuring in Russian. For a moment, Zhenya missed his own mother so much it hurt, but then Tatyana let go of Sasha and threw her arms around Zhenya as well, drawinf both of them into a hug and pecking kisses on both of them in turn, murmuring, "My boys! My brave boys! I'm so proud of you!"

Zhenya hugged back and started crying — the warmth and the Russian was just too much — and Sasha drew him into a sideways hug and started crying too. 

Mikhael and Sasha's Dad, Mikhail clapped them both on the back, half-hugging them, and then Mikhael picked up their bags and took them upstairs.

"Mama—" Sasha started, and then stopped, sniffling back more sobs. "Mama, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

Tatyana snorted, waving a hand as if she was tossing rubbish into a bin. "Feh, the press!" 

"They are all vultures," Mikhail said, "and these American politicians are worse than vultures!" 

Zhenya winced; he didn't want to think of what the politicians were saying, American or Russian or anyone else.

Mikhail shook his head, lips pursed tight. "Come into the living room, boys, sit down and rest; you must be exhausted after all your flights."

"Papa—" Sasha said, and let go of his Mama in order to cling on to his father. "Papa, the things they wrote— I would never, I didn't—"

"I know son," Mikhail said, hugging him tight. "You're a good boy." He looked up at Zhenya. "You're both good boys."

Zhenya sniffed, nodded, and wiped his eyes. "Thank you." He gripped Mikhail's arm. "I—Thank you."

The instant the backs of his knees hit the couch, Zhenya felt the exhaustion hit him, even though he'd spent the last several hours doing nothing but worrying, sitting or sleeping. Sasha groaned loudly when he sat down, letting his head fall back and throwing his arms out along the back as he sagged into a sprawl. "This _day_ ," he said. Moaned, really.

"Yeah," Zhenya agreed. 

Mikhael snorted from his armchair and kicked lazily at Sasha's shoe. "First class, free champagne, and two gold medals — such a hard life you have, Sasha," he said, teasing as the brothers always did.

Sasha kicked back at him, but didn't move, eyes closed as he pretended to fall asleep.

"Honestly, boys, you've had five minutes — now let me see them," Tatyana demanded as she pulled out a camera, snapping her fingers.

Sasha rolled his head to the side, and grinned at Zhenya, who grinned back. "On three?" he said, standing up, hand up at his neck.

Zhenya laughed as he stood and faced the Ovechkins, raising his own hand: "Three—"

"—Two—" Sasha said.

"—One!" everyone yelled, and Zhenya and Sasha pulled out their gold medals. Tatyana started taking photos, and Sasha grabbed Zhenya and pulled him in close, laying a big smooching kiss on his cheek.

After they'd taken all the photos — Tatyana even got out her own gold medals, so they could hold all four of them up in a group shot with the whole family, since Zhenya had a selfie-stick for his iPhone — Zhenya put several of them up on his Instagram, because fuck the haters, he and Sasha and Tatyana had four gold meals; what did they have? 

His phone started beeping at him immediately, as what looked like a dozen different PR people all tried to text-lecture him at once for that.

"Ignore them," Sasha said, shrugging; it seemed he'd passed through miserable and morose on the flight and hit dangerously defiant; their PR people probably should be more worried over what Sasha would do now. Zhenya just smiled at him, knocking their shoulders together as he switched his phone off and pocketed it.

"Time to go to work," Tatyana announced. "I have your schedules, and the Capital's film crew will be working with Pens TV to do a candid at-home piece this morning, to be released tomorrow, after the official joint press conference this afternoon. Once that's done, you'll have the evening off, apart from three short telephone interviews." She looked at them both, and Zhenya straightened his spine. "You already looked over the statements, of course; what do you want to change?"

"Marriage," Shash blurted out. 

Zhenya felt his face flush red, and then go pale; he felt a little sick, light-headed. 

"Marriage?!" Mikhael and Mikhail yelped in unison. "To each other?" Mikhael added after a pause, glancing between them.

Sasha bit his lip, and threw and arm around Zhenya's waist. "Of course, to each other."

"You talk about marriage, but how would that work?" Tatyana looked between them. "I am very happy for you, but you need to think about this, because when you make this announcement, the press will ask the next questions. What will you tell them?"

Zhenya scrubbed a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Don't know," he admitted.

"Would you ask for a trade, Evgeni?" Tatyana turned to look at her son. "Or would you leave Washington, Sasha, go to Pittsburgh to be with your husband. What kind of salary hit would you need to take, to join the other? Would the Caps or the Pens be able to afford you, and would they want to?"

"Of course they'd want us!" Sasha protested. "We're Olympic gold medal winners, and I'm top of the league for scoring, and Zhenya's almost as good as I am."

So of course, that meant they had to talk things through, and then review all the preliminary statements and go back and talk to people again.

"Naptime now." Tatyana waved her tablet at them. "I have everything under control now, boys, so you two just relax. Mikhael has set your alarm, Sasha, and set out your good suit. Mario and Sidney brought several of yours with them, Zhenya, don't panic. They are hanging in Sasha's closet, so just pick the one you want to wear, and remember to set out your shoes." 

Sasha beamed at his Mama proudly, and Zhenya just nodded along to her orders, widening his eyes as he stifled a yawn. A nap sounded like the best idea ever.

 

 

The film crew were exhausting, even though Sasha clearly knew them well. They were both tired, and at home, and it was hard to remember to speak only english and pronounce it well enough to please the film crew. 

Sasha had to re-do one line six times, before they decided to switch them around and have Sasha in Zhenya's place, and Zhenya saying what had been Sasha's line.

Zhenya managed it on the first take, and promptly threw a filmstar pose, stroking a hand back through his hair —"I'm best actor. Win Oscar next!" — before chirping Sasha in Russian: "I have this acting business in the bag. You're lucky I'm here to save you, Sasha!" 

"Hah, lies! You forget I've actually seen you on TV back home, and you're always terrible!" Sasha got him in a headlock for that, shouting chirps in english for the camera crew — "You worst actor! Never win Oscar!" — and they scuffled a bit, laughing. 

Mikhael wandered into the room, sighed at them, and wandered out again, shaking his head.

They wrestled, and the back of Zhenya's knee hit the couch, He overbalanced, falling backwards. Sasha promptly let him go, and stood there laughing. Zhenya lunged up and tickled him, and Sasha doubled over, laughing and batting Zhenya's hands away.

Eventually they settled on the couch side-by-side, knocking their knees together and smiling at each other as they answered the rest of the film crew's questions. It was awkward and artificial, the couch turned to a better angle 'for the natural light' and the living room tidied up, uncluttered, and then carefully re-cluttered as the film crew picked up interesting things to scatter around 'artistically', and then occasionally zoomed in on photo frames and hockey things and Russian items. 

But at least the questions weren't too bad. They had set some firm limits and the interviewer respected those limits, for once. They mostly seemed to want teasing comments and some joking around, plus a few 'family hugs' and shots of them all watching Russian TV shows together in Sasha's living room. 

Then they had to move the dining room table around and film a 'normal family meal', and Zhenya rolled his eyes, muttering "Normal?! They've clearly never met you," and shoving at Sasha's face. 

It was awful. The food tasted wonderful, but they had to keep filming so long, from so many different angles, it all went cold. 

During the third break, when they needed to sort out a broken microphone and pin the replacement to Tatyana's collar, Mikhail said, "Come on, let's re-heat all this," picked up all the plates, and at least then the food was warm again for the last ten minutes of filming. 

"I hate filming meals," Zhenya groaned. "I'm so hungry, and so sick of the food I never want to eat it again." 

Sasha nodded, poking at the congealed mess on his plate. "I never thought you could ruin a home-cooked Russian meal made of all my favourites, but this film crew..." He poked it again, then dropped his fork with a clatter. "Ugh."

Mikhail clapped them both on the shoulders. "I'm proud of you boys, though. You handled it well."

Zhenya smiled. Sasha drew both of them into a tight hug, and started crying only a little bit into Zhenya's hair. 

The camerawoman caught it, swinging her camera around to point at them, and Zhenya grinned tautly, whispering, "Don't look up, Sasha, but you're on camera again." 

Sasha sniffed damply. "It's because I'm so pretty. Who could resist my animal magnetism?" 

Zhenya squeezed him a little, and snorted. 

MIkhail pulled a clean folded handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Sasha. "Might want to wipe your handsome face, then, so you can look pretty for the cameras." 

Zhenya knocked his head against Sasha's. "Yeah, wouldn't want to break them." 

Sasha squawked and pinched him viciously in the side, the bastard.

"Can you repeat that, in english this time?" asked one of the interviewers, as the camerawoman moved to get a better angle. 

Zhenya sighed, but obediently moved back to the position he'd been in when their little conversation started. 

"Quick — what's english for animal magnetism?" Sasha asked, leaning in sideways. 

"'Animal', uh..." Zhenya tried, and looked at Mikhail helplessly.

Mikhail frowned, and opened his mouth, then closed it and shrugged, open-handed.

Sasha frowned, and quickly looked it up on his phone, whispering, "mag-net-ism, magnetism, animal magnetism," until Zhenya punched him in the arm. "Ow, what?!"

"The crew's ready to film us." 

 

Turning up at the Capital's arena to give a press conference, a whole table full of hockey royalty... it felt bizarre, like the Combine or the lockout-year CBA negotiations all over again. At least they didn't have to say much: a few memorised statements and Sid and Mario and Backstrom and the others could help them handle most of the questions.

Zhenya was glad of that, peeking out over the crowd from a window in the side door. It was worse even than the Olympics. The sheer number of media people, with their cameras and microphones like a small forest, was ridiculous. All this, just because he was dating a man? "What business is it of theirs?" he mumbled, grumpily, shaking his head.

"None. But that won't stop them asking," Sid said bitterly, as he clapped him on the shoulder. "But we'll face them together, yeah. Team."

Nicklas Backstrom nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, we're team."

They were called in by a manic-looking PR person with a headset on and a clipboard and tablet in her hands.

Nicklas went ahead, and then Sid followed, stopping Zhenya with a hand on his chest, before offering him their usual pre-game ritual fistbump, chest-tap, helmet — well, forehead — tap. Zhenya shoved him away, laughing. "It's not a game, Sid."

Sasha grinned and wrapped his arms around Zhenya. "I've won anyway. Best prize."

"Ugh, shut up," Sid said and walked in.

"Ready?" Sasha said, looking nervous again.

"With you? Always," Zhenya said, smiling at him, and together they opened the door and walked into a storm.


End file.
